So, here it is, the Monday of my 4th week back to work full time, with Gopher in daycare full time.
And you know what? It's going just fine.
Sure, I miss my days of working from home. Mostly the parts when I was baby-snuggling and coffee-getting, though, which meant that I spent a lot of nights working from home to meet my deadlines. And as fantastically snuggly as that Gopher can be, I don't miss working FT with an infant and no childcare.
The month of February was a great opportunity to live the dream, refine the dream. What was once "I want to work from home" is now the more specific "I want to work for myself." Which is good to know. And what was once "sooner than later" is now "when the time is right," which is not now. And what was once "I could totally handle it" is now "I would really, really have to work at time management and give up on perfection."
And for whatever reason (maybe the refined and less urgent dream), I am much more comfortable where I am and I'm realizing that I really like what I do, that I get to do some really interesting things with interesting people, that I am treated with much kindness, and that I am really, really lucky when it comes to my job and many, many other areas in my life. I mean, I knew that before Gopher, but coming back to work was a nice reminder that everything is FINE. GOOD, even. That there is no need to reinvent everything, all the time.
The mornings, though. If I could just fix ONE thing, please. The fucking mornings. The racing around, the unpreparedness, the madness. The limited baby-snuggling, lack of patience-having. The feeling like I've been clawing my way out of a deep, dark pit for hours upon hours before I even hit the office door. That I could do without.
***
Spring must be hiding and giggling and almost peeing its pants somewhere, waiting to jump out and be all "Bloodeedoo!" because I have been feeling CRAFTY and RESTLESS. I've been knitting washcloths like your Granny, I made Birdy 4 little belts to hold her jeans up (bless her heart), and I've been threatening for three weeks to leave this damned house with no children strapped or otherwise attached to my body to go to the fabric store and purchase one of about 8 dress patterns I've had my eye on. That's right, I said it. DRESS PATTERN.
Which is funny, right? Miss jeans and solid-colored t-shirt over here? Well, despite my legendary * ahem * simple fashion sense, I spend a weird amount of time thinking about clothing, partially from a nerdy construction angle and partially from an "I'd like to be in over my head on a project" angle. Plus, dresses. I mean, how much easier does it get? One piece of clothing + shoes. Tights if it's cold. No finding multiple clean pieces. And in my current body shape, no waistband, amen. What may seem like a move toward the fancy is actually a move toward the lazy, and I am totally cool with that.
***
Bird and I ran into one of her former daycare teachers at the hotdog stand a few weekends ago. She's a lovely person, mid-twenties, who has recently become a police officer. She spends her working hours patrolling on foot in the projects. Which is, as you might have guessed, is totally hard core.
I realized as we were talking that becoming a cop is one of the most unsettling things I could imagine. In my life now, with my constantly humming little brain thinking up bizarre scenarios in the background of my actual, valuable thoughts, there are plenty of situations (plausible and implausible) that I am able to dismiss with "I would call the police."
But for Laura, holy shit, she IS the police. Which, for some, might feel empowering. To me, it seems terrifying. To know that this idea of an all-seeing protector is truly just a human, with no superhuman powers and no more magic than anybody else. That since Joe Policeman visited my 4th grade class, I've had this imaginary army of officers who totally had my back and really? There's just ME. I'm IT, and I know just exactly how un-magical I am. And there are a bunch of people out there who think I'm capable of being not only a badass, but a superhero badass.
And really (this is my point), it's kind of the same thing being a parent, isn't it? Those moments when you say to yourself, "Holy shit, I AM the mom. And I don't have a clue what I'm doing."
Showing posts with label Employment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Employment. Show all posts
22 March 2010
25 January 2010
I once got busy in a Burger King Bathroom
Working from Home:
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.
She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.
And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.
Well.
One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!
Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.
Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.
WOW, my friends. It's everything I dreamed it could be. And I just learned how to nurse in the moby, so YEAH. One sweet month of livin ' the dream before I'm back to wearing real pants, remembering my key code and doing my designated week of office kitchen duty. That's gonna hurt.
She Has a Home
Mystery solved: neighborhood-wandering chicken (who survived the cold snap! aw snap!) is the tragic result of a chicken escape that happened to my corner neighbors. Except the chicken was to be a gift, so the neighbors aren't exactly eager to get her back, as they never intended to own her. They tell me that the only way to catch a chicken is to wait until it's asleep and then sneak up on it and grab it, so... not bloody likely. Looks like I'll be cleaning chicken shit off my sidewalk for a good long while, or until the chicken meets with whatever natural predators a chicken might encounter 18 blocks from the smack-middle of a major metropolitan area. I must say it satisfies my country-livin' yearnings to see her pecking and scratching around outside the kitchen window every morning.
And speaking of urban living:
My friend J. recently tried to help me understand why in the holy hell one would live 30 miles away from one's workplace, explaining that he really didn't mind his super long-ass commute to work, or the traffic, or the fact that he puts in the equivalent of almost one extra work day each week just getting there and back. He said that on that very morning, he had left his subdivision and continued his commute through a stretch of hills and farmland, where a light morning fog was just beginning to lift over the giant, stoic hay bales dotting the fields. And something about a deer or a fox or a magical unicorn that inspired him to turn up the Dave Matthews, sip his Starbucks Mochachino and really JAM.
Well.
One morning, I saw a dude gracefully drop trou and take a shit in a garbage can on the Main Street Bridge, like it was nothing. Salut!
Things go missing sometimes:
I almost surely popped a box of granola bars in the library drop box along with my library books by mistake. (Hey, it happens.) Later, there was some discrepancy at the Library about books I had not returned, which I swore up and down I had returned. I defended my honor by stating that I absolutely remembered returning those books, because I returned them with a box of granola bars! See!?! DO YOU NOT REMEMBER MY GRANOLA BARS, LIBARY GUY? WERE THEY DELICIOUS? HUH? WERE THEY?
And then, I found the books under Birdy's bed. And the granola bars in the car.
And showed my true crazy to the library guy in one short vignette.
Pretty Much What I Expected When I Said I'd Bear his Children:
This weekend I walked in on A. in the living room drinking a bloody mary, dancing around with Birdy and watching the Humpty Dance on YouTube. A true peach, my friends.
11 September 2009
Listen alla y'all
Today, I am naming a line of household garment care appliances. Finding and combining words about trust and value and the desire to be the kind of woman to whom pressed drapes and tablecloths are a given. I'm a little out of my element. The only iron I have ever owned is the one I own now, and it was left behind by a previous tenant in a house I rented in 1998. A discolored, renegade college iron. Even then, it was somebody's mom's old cast-off. I'm not getting very far. I am skilled at assassinating the creative process. Sabotage.
Why do I do this? I babystep into the word-world, do some research, find some images that get me to that place where people press (shit, OWN) tablecloths. The lines get wavy and I get into that person's head, start to understand how "Classic" differs from "Essential," how that feels, what combinations of words resonate, fit, complement. And just when I start to see the words and feel them and they have color and weight and texture to me, and they start to interact and kick up some good homekeeping-vibe momentum, I kick out a word. And another word. And they kind of work, no, wait, rearranged they COULD work, and I step back and take a look and say, "that might just be okay." And then I say, "That is a damn fine start." And what I should say next would be something like, "now what if..." but instead, my brain says, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" and I do this ultra-quick zoom-out thing, and if you were sitting here I'd make the noise that I think goes with it, and make some wild gestures, but you're not here, so imagine the face you would make if you were asleep and you woke up and realized you were driving down the interstate, because that's the face my brain makes. I HAVE to check email! I HAVE to check facebook! I HAVE to call the pediatrician, HAVE to make a note to call the countertop guy! And we should have a pumpkin party for Birdy's fourth! And I need to look up the Swine Flu! It's like trying to fall asleep and waking up suddenly every time you start dreaming. It is not a good way to work. And it's not getting any irons named.
Looks like we're going with "the Flattenah."
Why do I do this? I babystep into the word-world, do some research, find some images that get me to that place where people press (shit, OWN) tablecloths. The lines get wavy and I get into that person's head, start to understand how "Classic" differs from "Essential," how that feels, what combinations of words resonate, fit, complement. And just when I start to see the words and feel them and they have color and weight and texture to me, and they start to interact and kick up some good homekeeping-vibe momentum, I kick out a word. And another word. And they kind of work, no, wait, rearranged they COULD work, and I step back and take a look and say, "that might just be okay." And then I say, "That is a damn fine start." And what I should say next would be something like, "now what if..." but instead, my brain says, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" and I do this ultra-quick zoom-out thing, and if you were sitting here I'd make the noise that I think goes with it, and make some wild gestures, but you're not here, so imagine the face you would make if you were asleep and you woke up and realized you were driving down the interstate, because that's the face my brain makes. I HAVE to check email! I HAVE to check facebook! I HAVE to call the pediatrician, HAVE to make a note to call the countertop guy! And we should have a pumpkin party for Birdy's fourth! And I need to look up the Swine Flu! It's like trying to fall asleep and waking up suddenly every time you start dreaming. It is not a good way to work. And it's not getting any irons named.
Looks like we're going with "the Flattenah."
06 August 2009
Pothole O'Reilly
Those were my two wavy words to type when I ordered my 7,000th bridal shower gift of the summer on Amazon. Pothole O'Reilly. Sounds like a scruffy little pickpocket.
I was explaining this at the dinner table, and Bird said, "who is Paco O'Reilly?" And yeah, even better.
Bird has been doing this weird exaggerated Southern accent lately, and I can't decide if I love it for its cleverness and her ability to notice and modify language, or if I hate it because it's obnoxious and loud and usually repetitive. Both, I guess.
I'm in the middle of a huge project at work. A project which involves a lot of pressure, and a deadline, and a lot of research. And truthfully, I should be at the END of this project, but I have grown to dislike it very much and spend a lot of my work time searching for distraction. Like the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry sit down to write the pilot. In any case. This project. Kicking my lazy, pregnant ass all over the room.
Things we have recently prepared and liked, which involve minimal stove time: Mango Avocado Rolls, Edamame Hummus. Yum on both. Go try.
Currently reading: Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. The library sent an email saying the book was overdue. So I went online to renew it, naturally. And it is ON HOLD for another patron, and therefore un-renewable. But! I am loving this book, in a sad and curious way, so I keep making reading promises and making more headway, racing to finish and return just a little bit late. This is my public apology to the next reader: I do hope you are a hopeful and disorganized library patron like me, that you use the hold list as more of a wish list, and that you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that it's your turn, instead of sitting in your reading chair in the dark all alone, tapping your fingertips on the table until I'm done. Because dammit, I have to finish this book.
I was explaining this at the dinner table, and Bird said, "who is Paco O'Reilly?" And yeah, even better.
Bird has been doing this weird exaggerated Southern accent lately, and I can't decide if I love it for its cleverness and her ability to notice and modify language, or if I hate it because it's obnoxious and loud and usually repetitive. Both, I guess.
I'm in the middle of a huge project at work. A project which involves a lot of pressure, and a deadline, and a lot of research. And truthfully, I should be at the END of this project, but I have grown to dislike it very much and spend a lot of my work time searching for distraction. Like the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry sit down to write the pilot. In any case. This project. Kicking my lazy, pregnant ass all over the room.
Things we have recently prepared and liked, which involve minimal stove time: Mango Avocado Rolls, Edamame Hummus. Yum on both. Go try.
Currently reading: Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. The library sent an email saying the book was overdue. So I went online to renew it, naturally. And it is ON HOLD for another patron, and therefore un-renewable. But! I am loving this book, in a sad and curious way, so I keep making reading promises and making more headway, racing to finish and return just a little bit late. This is my public apology to the next reader: I do hope you are a hopeful and disorganized library patron like me, that you use the hold list as more of a wish list, and that you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that it's your turn, instead of sitting in your reading chair in the dark all alone, tapping your fingertips on the table until I'm done. Because dammit, I have to finish this book.
23 July 2009
Vocabulary Police, Dawdling, and Over-thinking
If you had been at our house this morning, you would have seen me standing over the washing machine with my arm in almost up to the shoulder, frantically fishing through cold, dark water for my drowned cell phone. Already late for work, you would have heard me say a lot of things to myself. And you would have heard me end with "FUCKING STUPID."
And then, you would have heard a firm little voice in the kitchen say, "Mom. We don't say 'stupid'."
--
Ah, my Bird. She is a piddling, dawdling, piddledawdler in the mornings. A. puts up with most of it since I (theoretically, anyway) start my paid workday earlier than he does, and it is more frequently becoming a power struggle/ battle of wits/ tangle of wills between the two of them. They argue like teenagers. He asks her to put on her shoes, she puts on five finger puppets. He askes her to go get dressed, she spends her time jumping on the bed. He asks her to brush her hair, she ends up in a puddle of tears because she's found her winter coat in the too-small box. He asks her to put on her listening ears, and she says, "I left them at school." He counts to three. She complies at the final second. And more than a few times, Bird says, "Daddy. Settle down." Which, if you know my mild-mannered A., is especially funny. Except not to him.
--
So, about that too-small box. Looks like it's going to be seeing a lot of action starting this winter-- baby #2 is officially a girl. Time to start naming, sorting, wrapping our heads around what's going on around here. Two girls. Yay and yikes.
--
No time like the pregnant to over-think some shit: In halfway following a discussion board comment thread, I read the words that push the overthink-buttons of WOH mamas around the country: "evaluate what you give up to go to work and decide if it's really worth it." I'll spare you the details of my rabbit-hole thinking-- my ever-changing and always hazy list of gains and losses that never declares a winner.
All this talk of giving up and gaining. Of worth. How much of it is truly about the benefit to the child and how much of it is about having sorted laundry and clean sheets and time to slow-cook a meal? How much is about parenting and how much is about physically being in and keeping up a home? How much is just straight-up personal, on both sides of the decision?
I have wrestled with internal and external voices that both encourage and challenge my choices as a working-away-from-home mama, and I can tell you with complete honesty that sometimes, the desire to be home with my child during the day really does boil down to having naptime to myself and getting some flowers planted. Running an errand in the middle of the day without paying for it with my lunch hour. Spending enough time in my house to clean it and enough time in my neighborhood to enjoy it. And having time for actual, personal, non-facebook connections with my actual, personal friends. That is what I am missing-- or feel like I've given up-- the most right now. I have time with Bird every night, but I haven't seen some of my dearest friends in months.
And then, you would have heard a firm little voice in the kitchen say, "Mom. We don't say 'stupid'."
--
Ah, my Bird. She is a piddling, dawdling, piddledawdler in the mornings. A. puts up with most of it since I (theoretically, anyway) start my paid workday earlier than he does, and it is more frequently becoming a power struggle/ battle of wits/ tangle of wills between the two of them. They argue like teenagers. He asks her to put on her shoes, she puts on five finger puppets. He askes her to go get dressed, she spends her time jumping on the bed. He asks her to brush her hair, she ends up in a puddle of tears because she's found her winter coat in the too-small box. He asks her to put on her listening ears, and she says, "I left them at school." He counts to three. She complies at the final second. And more than a few times, Bird says, "Daddy. Settle down." Which, if you know my mild-mannered A., is especially funny. Except not to him.
--
So, about that too-small box. Looks like it's going to be seeing a lot of action starting this winter-- baby #2 is officially a girl. Time to start naming, sorting, wrapping our heads around what's going on around here. Two girls. Yay and yikes.
--
No time like the pregnant to over-think some shit: In halfway following a discussion board comment thread, I read the words that push the overthink-buttons of WOH mamas around the country: "evaluate what you give up to go to work and decide if it's really worth it." I'll spare you the details of my rabbit-hole thinking-- my ever-changing and always hazy list of gains and losses that never declares a winner.
All this talk of giving up and gaining. Of worth. How much of it is truly about the benefit to the child and how much of it is about having sorted laundry and clean sheets and time to slow-cook a meal? How much is about parenting and how much is about physically being in and keeping up a home? How much is just straight-up personal, on both sides of the decision?
I have wrestled with internal and external voices that both encourage and challenge my choices as a working-away-from-home mama, and I can tell you with complete honesty that sometimes, the desire to be home with my child during the day really does boil down to having naptime to myself and getting some flowers planted. Running an errand in the middle of the day without paying for it with my lunch hour. Spending enough time in my house to clean it and enough time in my neighborhood to enjoy it. And having time for actual, personal, non-facebook connections with my actual, personal friends. That is what I am missing-- or feel like I've given up-- the most right now. I have time with Bird every night, but I haven't seen some of my dearest friends in months.
23 April 2009
Storm a-brewin'
I have 70 lbs of shaking, drooling, clumsy dog trying to fit under this desk with my legs tonight. Who needs the weather man when you've got this guy?
I realized this week that I have been misusing (and misunderstanding) a common business term for about five years now. C-suite. Who knew it actually meant people whose titles start with "C"... CEO, CFO, COO, whatever. I thought it meant "C" suite. Like, not quite "A" suite, just down the hall from "B" suite. Like a C-list celebrity. A C-list executive. As in, probably drives a Taurus.
Fortunately, I discovered this on my own, prior to making an ass of myself, though I might have said, "aaaaaah!" under my breath in a meeting when my own personal lightbulb finally went off.
Also at work this week, the bug guy showed up in his poisonous metal backpack, wearing a tie with illustrated bugs on it. Dude. Way to get into it.
I picked Bird up from daycare and she wanted to show me her "ant hill"-- a paper plate painted green, topped with a paper cup painted brown. I found the one with her name on it, sitting in a row of identical creations, drying and waiting to have fingerprint ants applied in the morning. Walking home, I told her I really liked her ant hill. "No, mama" she said, "Ant Heel."
"Oh," I said. "I always thought it was "Ant hill."
"No. Ant Hee-Yull. Like the Hee-Yull of your foot. Hee-Yull."
A. and I are Midwestern to our core, but that girl is all South.
I realized this week that I have been misusing (and misunderstanding) a common business term for about five years now. C-suite. Who knew it actually meant people whose titles start with "C"... CEO, CFO, COO, whatever. I thought it meant "C" suite. Like, not quite "A" suite, just down the hall from "B" suite. Like a C-list celebrity. A C-list executive. As in, probably drives a Taurus.
Fortunately, I discovered this on my own, prior to making an ass of myself, though I might have said, "aaaaaah!" under my breath in a meeting when my own personal lightbulb finally went off.
Also at work this week, the bug guy showed up in his poisonous metal backpack, wearing a tie with illustrated bugs on it. Dude. Way to get into it.
I picked Bird up from daycare and she wanted to show me her "ant hill"-- a paper plate painted green, topped with a paper cup painted brown. I found the one with her name on it, sitting in a row of identical creations, drying and waiting to have fingerprint ants applied in the morning. Walking home, I told her I really liked her ant hill. "No, mama" she said, "Ant Heel."
"Oh," I said. "I always thought it was "Ant hill."
"No. Ant Hee-Yull. Like the Hee-Yull of your foot. Hee-Yull."
A. and I are Midwestern to our core, but that girl is all South.
20 March 2009
@wakeup
This morning I woke to a gorgeous, crisp spring morning. A dark 5:30, still early enough to be that cozy, blue half-awake time, tucked in under a nice fat blanket with the bedroom window open and twenty more minutes to sleep before the mandatory wake-up and hustle. The world was fresh, peaceful, and willing to wait a few more minutes. I snuggled in to savor it. Birds were chirping. Mostly one bird. Chirping and chirping and chirping. Just singing his chipper little avian song out into the world, to no one in particular, without need for response, right outside my window. Chirp! As if he was chirping inside the very bedroom, perched on the night stand, chirping away. Look here! Chirpchirpchirp! I am awake! I am going to try to find a worm later! I'm thinking about making a nest! My @bird friend said chirp cheep -- hilarious! Chirp! I'm going to shit on your windshield in a bit! Chirp chirp!
I am learning to twitter. I am tweeting. Trying to figure out what it is and why it's appealing. Trying to care enough to keep up with it. Trying to figure out how and why the Tennessee Aquarium is following me. It's all work-related: somebody needs to know how to do it if we're going to be buzzing the buzz words of marketing, I suppose. Chirpbuzz.
I am learning to twitter. I am tweeting. Trying to figure out what it is and why it's appealing. Trying to care enough to keep up with it. Trying to figure out how and why the Tennessee Aquarium is following me. It's all work-related: somebody needs to know how to do it if we're going to be buzzing the buzz words of marketing, I suppose. Chirpbuzz.
23 February 2009
I am crossing some shit off my list:
Tonight: Taxes!
Tomorrow: The rest of the shit on the list! *
And just so you know, I never intend to neglect this blog, though I do admit it is often first on the chopping block since I am spending my days clickety-clacking out words in various persuasive and illustrative combinations so as to earn the money to pay the mortgage, buy the toilet paper, etc. Makes the pulling-together-the-words thing a bit less appealing after coming home, cooking/ eating, Bird-ing, bedtime-ing. Seems there is less to write about now, even though there is just as much as ever, and I think it's because I no longer spend hours alone in my car thinking about weird things, encountering fascinating tribes of rural humans, and generally twisting my brain around however I want. Instead, I am flattening it out like a pancake and writing very informative and detailed web sites about technology and services within the healthcare industry. Yes, I know. Maybe I should start smoking again, just to spice things up. Or maybe start drinking. Around noonish.
* Okay. At a minimum, one of the things on the list. And let's be honest, it's probably not going to be "organize photos" or "guest room closet." That is the kind of shit that I am leaving for Bird and any subsequent children to deal with after I pass from this world at a ripe old age, finally tired from my many years of not really organizing anything, ever.
Tomorrow: The rest of the shit on the list! *
And just so you know, I never intend to neglect this blog, though I do admit it is often first on the chopping block since I am spending my days clickety-clacking out words in various persuasive and illustrative combinations so as to earn the money to pay the mortgage, buy the toilet paper, etc. Makes the pulling-together-the-words thing a bit less appealing after coming home, cooking/ eating, Bird-ing, bedtime-ing. Seems there is less to write about now, even though there is just as much as ever, and I think it's because I no longer spend hours alone in my car thinking about weird things, encountering fascinating tribes of rural humans, and generally twisting my brain around however I want. Instead, I am flattening it out like a pancake and writing very informative and detailed web sites about technology and services within the healthcare industry. Yes, I know. Maybe I should start smoking again, just to spice things up. Or maybe start drinking. Around noonish.
* Okay. At a minimum, one of the things on the list. And let's be honest, it's probably not going to be "organize photos" or "guest room closet." That is the kind of shit that I am leaving for Bird and any subsequent children to deal with after I pass from this world at a ripe old age, finally tired from my many years of not really organizing anything, ever.
26 January 2009
I'll open with a quote, then there will be eleven things:
mama: Bird, which coat do you want to wear?
bird: My pink coat.
mama: Good choice.
bird: I love this coat, in spite of everything.
1. After the holiday feeding frenzy, A. and I gave up cheese, large portions, and junk food. We gave up laziness and tight pants. We bought a bathroom scale and a pedometer, fired up the ipod and started exercising. It's been about a month and we are still, for the most part, on the wagon. The wagon that is full of sunflower seeds and carrot sticks. The wagon in which we sit and stare wistfully at the other wagon, the one full of feta crumbles and sour cream and stringy, gooey lasagna.
2. I have discovered some super kick-ass vegan cookbooks, and have gotten in over my head on occasion but for the most part have learned that there is life after cheese. And that things actually have a taste when they are not covered in dairy products. I'll stop short of calling myself a vegan because I'm just not ready to be That Girl, but it has been a satisfying road so far. Highly recommend Veganomicon and the Vegan Lunch Box, both of which were available at my local library, and that means FREE for all of you playing along at home.
3. Also, I have started running. First on the elliptical machine at the community center, then on the treadmill at the community center during the commercial breaks on Oprah (walking the rest of the time) and in the last few days, running on the actual sidewalks in the actual neighborhood. It is not graceful, and it sure as shit is not easy. And it hurts like the devil, but I keep doing it.
4. A. is doing great with the running, the bastard.
5. We quit smoking a little over a year ago. WOOT!
6. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?? 13 months ago, I was gnawing on hunks of cheddar and the only place I was running was into the 4-stop to buy a pack of smokes. And look at me now, with all of this bothersome health crap. Apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I am farting like an aging dog with a belly full of pinto beans. On that topic, we are trying to dissuade Bird from saying "fart." She now says she "has the vapors." Ah yes, much better.
7. Job. I like it. Being a mom. Like that, too. Not as mutually exclusive as I once thought. Either I'm getting better at balance or numb to the guilt and the second-guessing. Both, probably.
8. To the person that told me to clean my cast iron skillet with vegetable oil and coarse kosher salt, avoiding water unless it's a true stuck-on emergency: Thank you, kitchen wizard.
9. I hate playing "school." I get put in Time Out a lot. And then there is a version where there is a "teacher" and a "mama" and we replay a dropping-off-at-preschool scenario until I can't remember my own name. This is Bird's favorite thing to do-- she starts insisting on playing school before we even have our coats hung up in the afternoons.
10. I think it is time for a blog diet to compliment my new healthy eating plan. I have, like, nine thousand jillion blogs on my Google Reader. That link over there to my bloglines? Ancient. I've moved on to the Google Reader, and I will subscribe to anything. Everything. Cooking blogs. Mama blogs. People I Know blogs. And all of this blog checking has become a task, a pain in the ass, and it keeps me from writing here. There are things! Out there! That I haven't read yet! So I'll just read one more!
Mostly it's this: I subscribe to a lot of very beautiful blogs where people take pictures of their morning cups of coffee or write essays about their cherubic children weaving on looms in the wilderness or their gorgeous collection vintage dresses and heirloom quilts and and perfect crafts made in their tranquil, sunlit rooms before they prepare beautiful homemade meals for the family they love so very much, and it is all just such a huge load of bullshit. Obnoxious fiction. But I get sucked in, I scroll through these perfect little fantasies and they cast an ugly little shadow on my real life until I snap out of it and feel disgusted that I've just spent a very real part of my very real life looking at pictures of white curtains and whitewashed floors and reading about peaceful mornings spent playing with blocks in front of the fire or stitching up aprons or other such nonsense. So I am going to unsubscribe to these blogs very, very soon. Or at least put it all in one folder so I can avoid it as if it were cheese.
11. My mom is totally on facebook.
bird: My pink coat.
mama: Good choice.
bird: I love this coat, in spite of everything.
1. After the holiday feeding frenzy, A. and I gave up cheese, large portions, and junk food. We gave up laziness and tight pants. We bought a bathroom scale and a pedometer, fired up the ipod and started exercising. It's been about a month and we are still, for the most part, on the wagon. The wagon that is full of sunflower seeds and carrot sticks. The wagon in which we sit and stare wistfully at the other wagon, the one full of feta crumbles and sour cream and stringy, gooey lasagna.
2. I have discovered some super kick-ass vegan cookbooks, and have gotten in over my head on occasion but for the most part have learned that there is life after cheese. And that things actually have a taste when they are not covered in dairy products. I'll stop short of calling myself a vegan because I'm just not ready to be That Girl, but it has been a satisfying road so far. Highly recommend Veganomicon and the Vegan Lunch Box, both of which were available at my local library, and that means FREE for all of you playing along at home.
3. Also, I have started running. First on the elliptical machine at the community center, then on the treadmill at the community center during the commercial breaks on Oprah (walking the rest of the time) and in the last few days, running on the actual sidewalks in the actual neighborhood. It is not graceful, and it sure as shit is not easy. And it hurts like the devil, but I keep doing it.
4. A. is doing great with the running, the bastard.
5. We quit smoking a little over a year ago. WOOT!
6. Who the hell do I think I am, anyway?? 13 months ago, I was gnawing on hunks of cheddar and the only place I was running was into the 4-stop to buy a pack of smokes. And look at me now, with all of this bothersome health crap. Apologies. If it makes you feel any better, I am farting like an aging dog with a belly full of pinto beans. On that topic, we are trying to dissuade Bird from saying "fart." She now says she "has the vapors." Ah yes, much better.
7. Job. I like it. Being a mom. Like that, too. Not as mutually exclusive as I once thought. Either I'm getting better at balance or numb to the guilt and the second-guessing. Both, probably.
8. To the person that told me to clean my cast iron skillet with vegetable oil and coarse kosher salt, avoiding water unless it's a true stuck-on emergency: Thank you, kitchen wizard.
9. I hate playing "school." I get put in Time Out a lot. And then there is a version where there is a "teacher" and a "mama" and we replay a dropping-off-at-preschool scenario until I can't remember my own name. This is Bird's favorite thing to do-- she starts insisting on playing school before we even have our coats hung up in the afternoons.
10. I think it is time for a blog diet to compliment my new healthy eating plan. I have, like, nine thousand jillion blogs on my Google Reader. That link over there to my bloglines? Ancient. I've moved on to the Google Reader, and I will subscribe to anything. Everything. Cooking blogs. Mama blogs. People I Know blogs. And all of this blog checking has become a task, a pain in the ass, and it keeps me from writing here. There are things! Out there! That I haven't read yet! So I'll just read one more!
Mostly it's this: I subscribe to a lot of very beautiful blogs where people take pictures of their morning cups of coffee or write essays about their cherubic children weaving on looms in the wilderness or their gorgeous collection vintage dresses and heirloom quilts and and perfect crafts made in their tranquil, sunlit rooms before they prepare beautiful homemade meals for the family they love so very much, and it is all just such a huge load of bullshit. Obnoxious fiction. But I get sucked in, I scroll through these perfect little fantasies and they cast an ugly little shadow on my real life until I snap out of it and feel disgusted that I've just spent a very real part of my very real life looking at pictures of white curtains and whitewashed floors and reading about peaceful mornings spent playing with blocks in front of the fire or stitching up aprons or other such nonsense. So I am going to unsubscribe to these blogs very, very soon. Or at least put it all in one folder so I can avoid it as if it were cheese.
11. My mom is totally on facebook.
19 January 2009
Brought to you by the numbers 8, 53, and a number between 6 and 10
8:
hours in the car again this past weekend (hey, it beats our usual 10), up and back to E'burgh for the last of the'08 Christmases. It was an especially difficult one, as everyone is still so raw from A's Mamaw's death in November, but everyone kept their shit together for the most part and a good time was had by all. And as a bonus, I passed on my 24-inch Dancin' Singin' James Brown to a STOKED ten year old in the (lively) gift exchange. DSJB was originally a wedding gift from my brother, who reads this blog, and dude, before you get all hot under the collar about it: the Godfather of Soul was scaring the crap out of Birdy and he had to move on to a place where he would be loved. Okay.
53:
Degrees in our house Thursday night, even though the thermostat was promising 72. Ice on the insides of the windows and sub-zero toilet seats. Frozen pipes to the washing machine. Wearing several pairs of socks over my tights, under my jeans. Birdy's icicle fingers.
It got very cold in Tennessee-- the coldest in 12 years or something crazy-- right around the end of last week. It wasn't any colder than what we knew as "normal" in Indiana, but we have softened up and thawed since then and DAMN, single didgets are brutal. And it seems our little old Southern heat pump agreed with us. The heating repair guy came out in his van and spent some time in the scary dirt basement region while I ran up and down the steps to flip breakers on and off (more responsibility than I was prepared for). He delivered a sorry prognosis.
Replace this whole part, he said.
$700, he said.
Wait, he said.
They don't make that part anymore, he said.
Replace the whole thing? I said.
Yep, he said. Ob$cene amount, he said.
Wait it out? Miracle recovery? I said.
Take your chances, lunatic, he said.
Sounds like a plan, I said.
And lo and behold, when the temperature started to feel more like a Tennessee January than a Siberian one, the Little Heat Pump That Could? Totally DID. And we took off our coats and hats and thanked God above in advance for Birdy sleeping in her own warm toasty bed and not digging her little toes into our ribs.
The moral of this story: Sometimes old shit still works, but just part of the time and probably not when you really need it. But old shit does not require financing, just extra socks and sweaters and a decent space heater where you sleep.
A number between 6 and 10
percent paycut. Announced last Friday, the freezingest day, just before I left work to meet the gentleman about my failing heat pump. Asking your child to take off her mittens to eat dinner makes you feel one step away from the poor house, and doing the paycut math in your head while you serve the beans and rice* makes your kitchen feel even colder.
But! I have a job! And the people at that job are optimistic, positive. The cut is promised to be temporary. Kind things were said to me about the way I do my work, and truly, I am feeling quite happy there, finally comfortable. And hey, the heat came back on. Just put on another damn hat and wait it out, right?
*that's not for dramatic effect, we just happened to be having beans and rice, but it did make things seem a little bit more desperate in my moment of hand-wringing.
hours in the car again this past weekend (hey, it beats our usual 10), up and back to E'burgh for the last of the'08 Christmases. It was an especially difficult one, as everyone is still so raw from A's Mamaw's death in November, but everyone kept their shit together for the most part and a good time was had by all. And as a bonus, I passed on my 24-inch Dancin' Singin' James Brown to a STOKED ten year old in the (lively) gift exchange. DSJB was originally a wedding gift from my brother, who reads this blog, and dude, before you get all hot under the collar about it: the Godfather of Soul was scaring the crap out of Birdy and he had to move on to a place where he would be loved. Okay.
53:
Degrees in our house Thursday night, even though the thermostat was promising 72. Ice on the insides of the windows and sub-zero toilet seats. Frozen pipes to the washing machine. Wearing several pairs of socks over my tights, under my jeans. Birdy's icicle fingers.
It got very cold in Tennessee-- the coldest in 12 years or something crazy-- right around the end of last week. It wasn't any colder than what we knew as "normal" in Indiana, but we have softened up and thawed since then and DAMN, single didgets are brutal. And it seems our little old Southern heat pump agreed with us. The heating repair guy came out in his van and spent some time in the scary dirt basement region while I ran up and down the steps to flip breakers on and off (more responsibility than I was prepared for). He delivered a sorry prognosis.
Replace this whole part, he said.
$700, he said.
Wait, he said.
They don't make that part anymore, he said.
Replace the whole thing? I said.
Yep, he said. Ob$cene amount, he said.
Wait it out? Miracle recovery? I said.
Take your chances, lunatic, he said.
Sounds like a plan, I said.
And lo and behold, when the temperature started to feel more like a Tennessee January than a Siberian one, the Little Heat Pump That Could? Totally DID. And we took off our coats and hats and thanked God above in advance for Birdy sleeping in her own warm toasty bed and not digging her little toes into our ribs.
The moral of this story: Sometimes old shit still works, but just part of the time and probably not when you really need it. But old shit does not require financing, just extra socks and sweaters and a decent space heater where you sleep.
A number between 6 and 10
percent paycut. Announced last Friday, the freezingest day, just before I left work to meet the gentleman about my failing heat pump. Asking your child to take off her mittens to eat dinner makes you feel one step away from the poor house, and doing the paycut math in your head while you serve the beans and rice* makes your kitchen feel even colder.
But! I have a job! And the people at that job are optimistic, positive. The cut is promised to be temporary. Kind things were said to me about the way I do my work, and truly, I am feeling quite happy there, finally comfortable. And hey, the heat came back on. Just put on another damn hat and wait it out, right?
*that's not for dramatic effect, we just happened to be having beans and rice, but it did make things seem a little bit more desperate in my moment of hand-wringing.
24 October 2008
Today it is gray and raining, fall-feeling but not too gloomy.
I got up early and left before it was really light out to get to an early meeting about a tv ad script. I attended the grand opening of the new bus transit station and took some pictures. I wrote rationale for my recommendations on the longest tagline project ever. I put what I hope is the final polish on a big chunk of web content. It's been a productive day, I've enjoyed it. And now I'm staring at an ad in need of a headline and nothing. Nothing.
And what I'd really like to do? Is throw on a sweater and some thick socks, make a cup of coffee and sit on my front porch with a good book while the leaves drop. And I haven't thought about this for a while, but I as long as I'm dreaming I'll take a few cigarettes with that coffee, thanks.
About the getting up early: Bird has been waking up these dark mornings and coming into the kitchen squinting in her wacky-print jammies, saying, "too light, mama." And I have been trying my best to be more conscious of taking the time to sit down in the parlor and rock her long-legged sleepy self for a bit vs trying to speed everything up so I can get out the door on time. I'd rather miss ten minutes of work than ten minutes of my real job.
I got up early and left before it was really light out to get to an early meeting about a tv ad script. I attended the grand opening of the new bus transit station and took some pictures. I wrote rationale for my recommendations on the longest tagline project ever. I put what I hope is the final polish on a big chunk of web content. It's been a productive day, I've enjoyed it. And now I'm staring at an ad in need of a headline and nothing. Nothing.
And what I'd really like to do? Is throw on a sweater and some thick socks, make a cup of coffee and sit on my front porch with a good book while the leaves drop. And I haven't thought about this for a while, but I as long as I'm dreaming I'll take a few cigarettes with that coffee, thanks.
About the getting up early: Bird has been waking up these dark mornings and coming into the kitchen squinting in her wacky-print jammies, saying, "too light, mama." And I have been trying my best to be more conscious of taking the time to sit down in the parlor and rock her long-legged sleepy self for a bit vs trying to speed everything up so I can get out the door on time. I'd rather miss ten minutes of work than ten minutes of my real job.
03 October 2008
Good Grief, it's already October
Pumpkin Spice hershey kisses? Exactly how I would imagine a softened "Fall Spice" scented Glade plug-in refill might taste.
****
A.'s words of wisdom about the EastSide softball league:
"It takes all kinds. But mostly, rednecks."
****
Honestly, there are more desserts in my office building on a consistent basis than any place I have ever worked. And I have worked in a wine + dessert bar. I will be 300 lbs by Christmas. I will have this baby in April and you won't even notice anything different about me.
****
I've kept quiet about the details and shared only the vaguest of stories and whiniest of attitudes with you for the past month or so, but what ended up finally happening this past week is that I almost left my new job for my old job. And then I realized that would be a really, really bad decision. And since my moment of clarity and closure, my current job seems about 300% better.
****
Fall weather is upon us, thankfully, even with its dark mornings and earlier sunsets. I'm getting up way too late in the mornings-- what I need is my dad, circa 1992, to walk into my room for the third time at 6:00 am and just flip the stinkin' lights on and walk back down the stairs. I would be pissed, sure, but I would be on time.
****
Big dog can open Bird's door if it's not latched just right. He can open a lot of doors, actually, with a combination of turning the knob with his teeth and ramming his body against it. But Bird's door is one of his favorites, because she has a rug in her room, and it's the only rug in the house. He likes to curl up and get comfy and commence making a calamitous noise chomping his own ass. Anyway. More than a few times, I've been climbing into bed and hear him bust into her room, all legs and stomping and clumsiness and clanky collar. So I curse under my breath and stomp down the stairs to find him not curled up with his ass in his mouth, but rather standing in her doorway wagging his tail furiously. And then I look at her sleepy little self, about a half inch away from falling out of bed. And he looks at me like, "see?"
So add that to his predictive abilities-- thunderstorms and little kids falling out of bed. We all have gifts. His are just unexpected.
****
A.'s words of wisdom about the EastSide softball league:
"It takes all kinds. But mostly, rednecks."
****
Honestly, there are more desserts in my office building on a consistent basis than any place I have ever worked. And I have worked in a wine + dessert bar. I will be 300 lbs by Christmas. I will have this baby in April and you won't even notice anything different about me.
****
I've kept quiet about the details and shared only the vaguest of stories and whiniest of attitudes with you for the past month or so, but what ended up finally happening this past week is that I almost left my new job for my old job. And then I realized that would be a really, really bad decision. And since my moment of clarity and closure, my current job seems about 300% better.
****
Fall weather is upon us, thankfully, even with its dark mornings and earlier sunsets. I'm getting up way too late in the mornings-- what I need is my dad, circa 1992, to walk into my room for the third time at 6:00 am and just flip the stinkin' lights on and walk back down the stairs. I would be pissed, sure, but I would be on time.
****
Big dog can open Bird's door if it's not latched just right. He can open a lot of doors, actually, with a combination of turning the knob with his teeth and ramming his body against it. But Bird's door is one of his favorites, because she has a rug in her room, and it's the only rug in the house. He likes to curl up and get comfy and commence making a calamitous noise chomping his own ass. Anyway. More than a few times, I've been climbing into bed and hear him bust into her room, all legs and stomping and clumsiness and clanky collar. So I curse under my breath and stomp down the stairs to find him not curled up with his ass in his mouth, but rather standing in her doorway wagging his tail furiously. And then I look at her sleepy little self, about a half inch away from falling out of bed. And he looks at me like, "see?"
So add that to his predictive abilities-- thunderstorms and little kids falling out of bed. We all have gifts. His are just unexpected.
23 May 2008
The Bridges of Yard Sale County
First of all, thank God for friends who don’t let you get away with getting all dramatic.
Y’all are right. I’m in the right place at the right time, and really, aren’t we always in the right place, even when it sucks? I’m just a little bored, trying to be okay with the decision to stop helping people as a career, and also little embarrassed by my last post. I kind of feel like the high school girl who stayed up all night writing dark and dramatic poems in her journal and then turned it in to the High School literary magazine in a fit of poor, poor judgment. I also like to call this feeling “Vicious PMS.” You can see more of my work in this medium in such classics as "Late Night Nonsense Argument with Husband," "Ridiculously Rigid Toddler Rules, " and the timeless "OMiGod That Commercial Was SO SAD, Where Are the Tissues."
+++++
I have a twitch in my right thumb. It is driving me crazy, this thumb flicking about on its own.
+++++
YARD SALE LIST! That’s what “YS List” stands for. I was going to make a list of yard sales and drag Bird around town tomorrow morning, buying other people’s castoffs and making promises to refinish/ re cover/ rewire. (That last one is funny, I’ve never rewired anything. But I have promised.) I’m not really going to make a YS list—my parents are coming in from
Here’s a yard sale story for you:
I grew up in an
If you have either a Tom Petty song or an REM song in your head after reading that last paragraph, dude, so do I. And we are totally old.
The festival is corny and crafty, and most years I never made it all the way to Rockville to walk around the town square and eat caramel apples and browse the nine hundred varieties of cutesy scarecrows made of straw and burlap. My main event was the drive from my town to Rockville along Highway 36, a long straight country drive in the early fall under a fat blue sky. And what could make that scene more appealing than the rural residents of three Central Indiana Counties dragging their crazy-assed junk to the side of a skinny old highway, ready to haggle over old handmade quilts, ridiculously kitschy furniture, driftwood lamps and broken electronics? And some of them even sold homemade gooseberry pie. I loved it. It was like a holiday to me.
I went year after year, sometimes dragging a college friend along, sometimes my mom, sometimes just me alone. I started to realize that some of the yard-salers were setting the same stuff out, year after year. I developed favorites (the gooseberry pie ladies, for example) and ventured down other county roads for even kookier loot and sometimes spookier people. I found the sweet spots, the hidden treasure, the stacks of embroidered pillowcases and ugly landscape paintings.
One year I took Beardog with me, during the period of his life where he went everywhere I went. We were a stinky, hair-covered team, me blowing down the highway singing at the tops of my lungs in the sunshine with the windows down, Beardog exhibiting the excellent dog quality of not complaining about loud singing, both of us hopping in and out of the car whenever something looked interesting.
I was haggling with a wiry old man in a lawn chair behind a long train of card tables over some old camera or belt buckle or brooch, and I looked down to find my sweet floofy dog freely pissing all over a cardboard box full of For Sale Junk—a $1 your-choice bin sort of thing that was stashed under the table separating me and the man with the overpriced broken radios. Having no idea how many precious $1 items were housed in that box, and being at the end of the day’s cash, I ended our negotiation and walked Beardog swiftly back to our car and drove away. I don’t know if anyone ever noticed the piss-box.
I’ve always felt a little guilty and a little victorious about that.
In closing, let's talk about what happens when you edit that story:
I went to a yard sale.
My dog pissed on a box of junk.
I kept quiet and left in a hurry.
22 May 2008
YS List
There’s something written on my calendar for tomorrow that says “YS list.”
I have no idea what it means. But I wrote it earlier in the week—earlier in the month?—for that day specifically and I’m wracking my brain trying to remember what I’m supposed to do about it.
I’ll spend all day tomorrow totally spooked that someone will come flying at me demanding my YS list, and I will be grievously unprepared.
x x x x
I got a cut and color yesterday. The answer to “how does the miracle $15 haircut lady make a living?” has been answered: color. It’s cheaper there than at most places, but writing that check still made me catch my breath.
x x x x
Today at work I was coming up with a title for a sewing demonstration DVD, and I was making this huge long list of related words and concepts in a stream-of-consciousness way. I just looked back over it, and one of the words I listed was “demon-sew.” As in Demonstrate + Sew.
But now I’m picturing black, wispy demons with horns and jaggedy wings trying to thread sewing machines and pricking their thumbs.
Now there’s a way to sell a sewing machine.
x x x x
Birdy is the fricking potty training queen. She is also at a stage in her social scene where lots of the kids in her daycare class have pregnant mamas or new babies in their lives, and she spends most of her free time walking around with a baby stuffed in her shirt, asking you if you want to touch her tummy.
It makes people kind of uncomfortable to see a pregnant toddler.
x x x x
I have a photo of her as my monitor’s wallpaper at work, and I’m staring at it right now, missing her like fucking crazy. This week has been long. And boring. As shit. And what’s that? Oh, two hours? I have TWO MORE HOURS to fill in this day, and nothing to fill them with. Doing nothing is far less fun when you have nothing to put off in order to do the nothing, if that makes sense.
I was teary about this job yesterday morning. There has been very little work for me in this past week, and I feel over-payed and under-needed. I miss having people call me and ask for help, and being able to say, “I will help you.” I miss knowing what to do. I miss procrastination; right now it’s just boredom.
And also, nothing interesting has happened to me during my eight-hour workdays in the last month. No crazy hillbillies, no bad hollers, no weird roadside shit. No weird requests or desperate pleas. No profound life lessons or cautions. No more squirrely feeling in the pit of my stomach, it’s true, but also no feeling in the pit of my stomach.
02 May 2008
Week in Review
Monday, I had my cute little new-fangled phone sitting nice and flat on top of my little desktop speakers, on vibrate. A. sent me a text (which said "call me," by the way) and my phone began to shimmy, working itself off of its resting place and plunking itself directly into the glass of water below. Like a perfect little cell-phone high dive. The rest of the story is boring but involves the dismantling of the phone and laying it out piece by piece on my windowsill to dry, like a little beach for cell phone parts.
Tuesday, I got the standard "what's your story" questions from my coworkers in the break room, and became acutely aware of how I sound like a compulsive liar when I give my employment history. "I graduated from college, got accepted into a competitive Master's program but didn't go, worked with the crazy and homeless for 7 years, worked in an ad agency until it dissolved, had a baby, worked with people who happened to be dying from a cruel and rare terminal illness, and then landed here to be a writer. Oh, and I'm also a massage therapist."
I have suffered from awful allergies this week, beginning Wednesday-- sneezing, awful congestion, continually dripping nose. I know I'm a really welcome addition to this open-floorplan creative department, with my scronking and snurgking all the live-long day. Wednesday I took some generic Allergy meds and maintained a paranoid, clumsy, fuzzy high for 2 full days. My patience has been short with Bird (though she's contributed enough "TWO" this week to last a month) and I've been bumbling around like an idiot, not choosing the right words, the right shoes, or the right cross streets. My job pretty much revolves around my being clever, and clever I am not when I'm stoned on generic Claratin-D. Thursday morning I told Andy my head was full of snot, but what came out of my mouth was "my head feels like it needs to take a shit." which, come to think of it, is the most accurate thing I've said in a while.
My job is going well. When I'm being really honest, I'll tell you I'm a little lonely. Sitting in a quiet little room with nothing but words to think about shifts my brain into a different gear, like when you've been reading a novel for four hours and the phone rings and you kind of forget how to talk to live humans. Sometimes I'll put my two cents into a conversation, but I usually return to my office slapping my palm to my forehead and wondering how I have existed this long in the world and am still unable to make decent small talk without revealing my own weird shit. I find as I walk down the hall to the bathroom that I'm starting to narrate my own movements in my head, and sometimes I even narrate my own thoughts, like I'm describing to myself whatever it is that I'm thinking, which is kind of a messy process. And no, I have not been dropping acid.
And no, that doesn't mean I regret taking this job, either, or even that it's going badly. My social skills have always been weird. I'm ready to be six months into this and be able to stop explaining myself and telling the back story to everything. I'm ready to be comfortable, but it's only been two weeks.
I'm also just having to re-condition myself-- I haven't written in this kind of a marathon since college, really, and that was a while ago. I'm out of practice at being this acquainted with my own brain, being required to use it this way.
Oh, also at work this week someone was talking to someone else about kids in a kind of know what I mean? tone, and I was standing there a little in and a little out of the conversation, and this person said something to me like, "Well, you're not old enough to have any kids yet, but when you do..."
And I just sat there kind of stunned, not sure what to say, because WTF? So I came up with these three options:
Maybe it's because I'm adjusting to working in the creative field again, where everything you put out there is judged in some way, evaluated, chosen or not chosen. And feeling like a bad mama to boot, walking around all high on Claritin and ignoring my child until she acts out and I can't cope with her two-ness. And here is this person questioning my ability to be a mother? Or is it about questioning my experience on this earth in general? In any case, that remark freaking flew all over me.
What I actually said in response was, "I have a daughter. She's two and a half."
And then of course today, because I am the way I am, I had to start some totally unrelated conversation with the other person that had witnessed this exchange that called into question whether or not I should be birthing babies or trying on prom dresses. Some stupid, awkward conversation that I crafted to give myself the opportunity to state my true age. As you might imagine, this exchange was not gracefully executed on my part.
In other news, I got to hold my friend J's sweet and teensy little baby this evening. I could have eaten him in one delicious bite.
Tuesday, I got the standard "what's your story" questions from my coworkers in the break room, and became acutely aware of how I sound like a compulsive liar when I give my employment history. "I graduated from college, got accepted into a competitive Master's program but didn't go, worked with the crazy and homeless for 7 years, worked in an ad agency until it dissolved, had a baby, worked with people who happened to be dying from a cruel and rare terminal illness, and then landed here to be a writer. Oh, and I'm also a massage therapist."
I have suffered from awful allergies this week, beginning Wednesday-- sneezing, awful congestion, continually dripping nose. I know I'm a really welcome addition to this open-floorplan creative department, with my scronking and snurgking all the live-long day. Wednesday I took some generic Allergy meds and maintained a paranoid, clumsy, fuzzy high for 2 full days. My patience has been short with Bird (though she's contributed enough "TWO" this week to last a month) and I've been bumbling around like an idiot, not choosing the right words, the right shoes, or the right cross streets. My job pretty much revolves around my being clever, and clever I am not when I'm stoned on generic Claratin-D. Thursday morning I told Andy my head was full of snot, but what came out of my mouth was "my head feels like it needs to take a shit." which, come to think of it, is the most accurate thing I've said in a while.
My job is going well. When I'm being really honest, I'll tell you I'm a little lonely. Sitting in a quiet little room with nothing but words to think about shifts my brain into a different gear, like when you've been reading a novel for four hours and the phone rings and you kind of forget how to talk to live humans. Sometimes I'll put my two cents into a conversation, but I usually return to my office slapping my palm to my forehead and wondering how I have existed this long in the world and am still unable to make decent small talk without revealing my own weird shit. I find as I walk down the hall to the bathroom that I'm starting to narrate my own movements in my head, and sometimes I even narrate my own thoughts, like I'm describing to myself whatever it is that I'm thinking, which is kind of a messy process. And no, I have not been dropping acid.
And no, that doesn't mean I regret taking this job, either, or even that it's going badly. My social skills have always been weird. I'm ready to be six months into this and be able to stop explaining myself and telling the back story to everything. I'm ready to be comfortable, but it's only been two weeks.
I'm also just having to re-condition myself-- I haven't written in this kind of a marathon since college, really, and that was a while ago. I'm out of practice at being this acquainted with my own brain, being required to use it this way.
Oh, also at work this week someone was talking to someone else about kids in a kind of know what I mean? tone, and I was standing there a little in and a little out of the conversation, and this person said something to me like, "Well, you're not old enough to have any kids yet, but when you do..."
And I just sat there kind of stunned, not sure what to say, because WTF? So I came up with these three options:
- I got my period when I was thirteen, so technically I've been "old enough" to have kids for almost twenty years! Suck it!
Maybe it's because I'm adjusting to working in the creative field again, where everything you put out there is judged in some way, evaluated, chosen or not chosen. And feeling like a bad mama to boot, walking around all high on Claritin and ignoring my child until she acts out and I can't cope with her two-ness. And here is this person questioning my ability to be a mother? Or is it about questioning my experience on this earth in general? In any case, that remark freaking flew all over me.
What I actually said in response was, "I have a daughter. She's two and a half."
And then of course today, because I am the way I am, I had to start some totally unrelated conversation with the other person that had witnessed this exchange that called into question whether or not I should be birthing babies or trying on prom dresses. Some stupid, awkward conversation that I crafted to give myself the opportunity to state my true age. As you might imagine, this exchange was not gracefully executed on my part.
In other news, I got to hold my friend J's sweet and teensy little baby this evening. I could have eaten him in one delicious bite.
23 April 2008
Day Three
My last day of the old job was a week ago today, and not unlike the series finale of a long-running sitcom: old questions finally answered, a peek into a wonderful, promising future for the other characters, last walk out of the building with a box of lamps and framed photos and into my car on a sunny afternoon with a good song playing loud on the radio.
Then, two days off and a relaxing weekend visit from my parents. A lovely Sunday Supper with good friends.
And then a cold dunk into reality-- earlier mornings, empty refrigerator, downtown traffic, and slacks.
And now, I'm midway through my first week. Starting over, meeting people. Missing my little sisterhood across town. I'm wearing my nicest clothes on an average Wednesday and eating lunch in the kitchen by myself. I'm trying not to fuck up. Trying to find a succinct way to tell the story of how I came to be here, a social worker/ writer/ massage therapist.Trying to call people by their right names. Getting locked out of the building, locked in the bathroom. Making dorky jokes nobody gets. Sitting in a bare office. Freezing my ass off. Learning the ropes. And above all, fighting a constant inner doubt about whether or not I'm good at this, whether I'm going to be good at this, how long it's going to take before it's apparent to everyone that I'm not very good at this.
It's not bad, it's the first week. This just happens to be how I do first weeks.
In case you were wondering about Bird and her imaginary friend, Venture Adivans, I have an update for you. Venture Adivans is in the hospital. And also simultaneously living in Birdy's tummy. And "HEY!" she points as she starts to climb into her car seat ALL BY HERSELF and becomes transfixed for the next ten minutes examining the warning labels stuck to the base of the seat. There's a picture! of Venture Adivans! She is a baby in a car seat! And then what's that? Oh, she's NOT a baby? She's a big girl. A very big girl. She's Bird's brother. And she hit someone today at school and that was WRONG CHOICES, VENTURE ADIVANS. Me-oh-my-oh, this Venture Adivans is a mystery.
Here's a bonus tip for anyone starting a new job this week: Don't eat black beans for dinner AND the next day's lunch. Not only did I make that mistake yesterday and today, I went right ahead and had black beans in my tortilla soup tonight at dinner. Musical, indeed! Let's make friends!
And finally, a product endorsement:
If your couch smells suspiciously like a dog's ass (not that I would know anything about that), dig around and find $5.99 and get some of this.
Then, two days off and a relaxing weekend visit from my parents. A lovely Sunday Supper with good friends.
And then a cold dunk into reality-- earlier mornings, empty refrigerator, downtown traffic, and slacks.
It's not bad, it's the first week. This just happens to be how I do first weeks.
In case you were wondering about Bird and her imaginary friend, Venture Adivans, I have an update for you. Venture Adivans is in the hospital. And also simultaneously living in Birdy's tummy. And "HEY!" she points as she starts to climb into her car seat ALL BY HERSELF and becomes transfixed for the next ten minutes examining the warning labels stuck to the base of the seat. There's a picture! of Venture Adivans! She is a baby in a car seat! And then what's that? Oh, she's NOT a baby? She's a big girl. A very big girl. She's Bird's brother. And she hit someone today at school and that was WRONG CHOICES, VENTURE ADIVANS. Me-oh-my-oh, this Venture Adivans is a mystery.
Here's a bonus tip for anyone starting a new job this week: Don't eat black beans for dinner AND the next day's lunch. Not only did I make that mistake yesterday and today, I went right ahead and had black beans in my tortilla soup tonight at dinner. Musical, indeed! Let's make friends!
And finally, a product endorsement:If your couch smells suspiciously like a dog's ass (not that I would know anything about that), dig around and find $5.99 and get some of this.
22 April 2008
First Few Days
The new job has started. The old job has ended.
This is really just a placeholder for a post to come, as I adjust to this new schedule and new type of workday. It hasn't been easy but it hasn't been awful.
I'm the first to leave the house now, about an hour earlier than I did at the old job. I walked into Bird's room this morning as it was getting light outside and her room was brightening. Sweaty and still mostly asleep, she opened one eye and then both, sat up in a pink, bed-headed mess, and stared at my face for a minute.
She said, "I don't like you."
This is really just a placeholder for a post to come, as I adjust to this new schedule and new type of workday. It hasn't been easy but it hasn't been awful.
I'm the first to leave the house now, about an hour earlier than I did at the old job. I walked into Bird's room this morning as it was getting light outside and her room was brightening. Sweaty and still mostly asleep, she opened one eye and then both, sat up in a pink, bed-headed mess, and stared at my face for a minute.
She said, "I don't like you."
10 April 2008
And THEN,
my current job made a counter-offer. You know, to further complicate things. To turn up the guilt. To make me really think about how much there is to like about this little job, working out of a little crackerbox house-turned-office, running work errands on no particular schedule and having the power to make things just the way I want them. Well, certain things anyway. A lot to like about my coworkers and the permission to wear flip-flops to work. I called A. in a wrenched-up panic of indecision. I called my dad. I whined to my coworkers.
And then I turned it down.
It would have meant a position with the title of "Director." It would have been a great resume move if I had decided that non-profit was the path for me. Honestly, sometimes I think it may be what I'm best at, but I just keep thinking about that truck.
It also would have meant finding out what it's like to stay in a job for more than two years.*
Hopefully this counter-offer won't become my new "what if."
Bird
Went to the zoo today on her field trip. By herself. Oh my, this big kid of ours.
Coming home from a cookout this weekend (involving many old college friends in town from far, far away for a dear friend's wedding):
Me: Did you have a good time at the party?
Bird: The boys! Drink in a little cup! And they say, "CHEERS!" and they drink it all real fast!
Fabulous.
*To be clear, I've stayed with employers longer than a couple of years, but not in the same position-- literally-- for more than a year and a half. I like to wait until I really get the hang of something and really have a handle on which end is up at a job, and then I either change positions or move on completely and start the whole process over. Easily distracted, I suppose.
And then I turned it down.
It would have meant a position with the title of "Director." It would have been a great resume move if I had decided that non-profit was the path for me. Honestly, sometimes I think it may be what I'm best at, but I just keep thinking about that truck.
It also would have meant finding out what it's like to stay in a job for more than two years.*
Hopefully this counter-offer won't become my new "what if."
Bird
Went to the zoo today on her field trip. By herself. Oh my, this big kid of ours.
Coming home from a cookout this weekend (involving many old college friends in town from far, far away for a dear friend's wedding):
Me: Did you have a good time at the party?
Bird: The boys! Drink in a little cup! And they say, "CHEERS!" and they drink it all real fast!
Fabulous.
*To be clear, I've stayed with employers longer than a couple of years, but not in the same position-- literally-- for more than a year and a half. I like to wait until I really get the hang of something and really have a handle on which end is up at a job, and then I either change positions or move on completely and start the whole process over. Easily distracted, I suppose.
09 April 2008
Quitter
So, I quit my job.
And I've been brewing up a post about this transition but haven't sat down to write it yet, partially because I've been up to my ears in other pressing issues and partially because... well, mlech. It's layered and thorny and it kind of makes me want to throw up.
The quick and dirty:
+More money.
-Less time at home.
+Better benefits (in that there are at least SOME).
-Less flexibility.
+Creative challenge.
-Constant judgment.
+Room to grow.
+/-Giving up permission to be mediocre 8 hours a day.
+/- taking a job on purpose, because I want it, not because I need a job while I work on the next big thing. That's the scariest.
The long and muckier:
And then there is the gnawing fact that when I left my desk job to go to massage school, the last place I ever wanted to be again was behind a desk. And now I'm staring at a 40 hour workweek and the words 'business casual.' What I envisioned was something I would love that would allow me to take my time in the mornings and swing by the Goodwill to kill a few hours in the afternoon if I felt like it, drag out my sewing machine, or take my dog to the vet without rearranging the world. You know, a total non-job. Actually, that setup? I think they call that inheritance.
And then there is the part about this being selfish in positive ways, about giving myself permission to find something I like to do, something that keeps my interest. And the part about being selfish in not-so-positive ways, putting my career before my family, giving up my extra day with Bird when I already have a job that makes ends meet, albeit barely. There's the feeling that I have years to be career-minded, that I should trudge through whatever job lets me be more of a mama.
Okay that's it. We're not talking about it anymore. This is boring. Except:
The day before I accepted this job I was sitting at a stoplight right here in Middle Tennessee, next to a semi truck from beautiful Las Cruces, NM. Hold on, this is significant.
Here's what I know about Las Cruces: It's a smallish city/college town near the border of Mexico, home to one of the schools that accepted me into its MFA program in creative writing in 1999. It's the town where I signed a lease on a one-bedroom adobe house and spent a few days meeting the other students in the program and talking with the writer in residence. And it's the place I never lived after my dad had a heart attack that year and I couldn't wrap my brain around not being able to drive home.
I didn't go for a lot of reasons I don't regret, another one of them being my now-husband who was my then-newish-boyfriend. But it has been my "what if" for going on ten years, and it showed up-- a semi truck from a smallish NM town-- right next to me here in Middle Tennessee. A truck from the town that was going to make me a writer appears during the days I spent trying to decide if I'm meant to be one. My 'what if' reminder.
So there you have it. Still making me nauseous, but I believe the hard part is over-- now if I could just warm up these damn feet. Here's to slacks on the 21st. I can't believe I just said that.
And on to the important stuff:
Bird is driving me fucking bananas. TWO. OhmygodTWO. Simultaneously sugar-sweet and raised from the pits of hell. She moved into the 2-3 year old class at daycare: big kid undies, big-kid swings, the whole shootin' match. She's a little person going through a big transition, just like me, and it isn't always graceful. I have a feeling we're driving each other fucking bananas.
And I've been brewing up a post about this transition but haven't sat down to write it yet, partially because I've been up to my ears in other pressing issues and partially because... well, mlech. It's layered and thorny and it kind of makes me want to throw up.
The quick and dirty:
+More money.
-Less time at home.
+Better benefits (in that there are at least SOME).
-Less flexibility.
+Creative challenge.
-Constant judgment.
+Room to grow.
+/-Giving up permission to be mediocre 8 hours a day.
+/- taking a job on purpose, because I want it, not because I need a job while I work on the next big thing. That's the scariest.
The long and muckier:
And then there is the gnawing fact that when I left my desk job to go to massage school, the last place I ever wanted to be again was behind a desk. And now I'm staring at a 40 hour workweek and the words 'business casual.' What I envisioned was something I would love that would allow me to take my time in the mornings and swing by the Goodwill to kill a few hours in the afternoon if I felt like it, drag out my sewing machine, or take my dog to the vet without rearranging the world. You know, a total non-job. Actually, that setup? I think they call that inheritance.
And then there is the part about this being selfish in positive ways, about giving myself permission to find something I like to do, something that keeps my interest. And the part about being selfish in not-so-positive ways, putting my career before my family, giving up my extra day with Bird when I already have a job that makes ends meet, albeit barely. There's the feeling that I have years to be career-minded, that I should trudge through whatever job lets me be more of a mama.
Okay that's it. We're not talking about it anymore. This is boring. Except:
The day before I accepted this job I was sitting at a stoplight right here in Middle Tennessee, next to a semi truck from beautiful Las Cruces, NM. Hold on, this is significant.
Here's what I know about Las Cruces: It's a smallish city/college town near the border of Mexico, home to one of the schools that accepted me into its MFA program in creative writing in 1999. It's the town where I signed a lease on a one-bedroom adobe house and spent a few days meeting the other students in the program and talking with the writer in residence. And it's the place I never lived after my dad had a heart attack that year and I couldn't wrap my brain around not being able to drive home.
I didn't go for a lot of reasons I don't regret, another one of them being my now-husband who was my then-newish-boyfriend. But it has been my "what if" for going on ten years, and it showed up-- a semi truck from a smallish NM town-- right next to me here in Middle Tennessee. A truck from the town that was going to make me a writer appears during the days I spent trying to decide if I'm meant to be one. My 'what if' reminder.
So there you have it. Still making me nauseous, but I believe the hard part is over-- now if I could just warm up these damn feet. Here's to slacks on the 21st. I can't believe I just said that.
And on to the important stuff:
Bird is driving me fucking bananas. TWO. OhmygodTWO. Simultaneously sugar-sweet and raised from the pits of hell. She moved into the 2-3 year old class at daycare: big kid undies, big-kid swings, the whole shootin' match. She's a little person going through a big transition, just like me, and it isn't always graceful. I have a feeling we're driving each other fucking bananas.
30 March 2008
If You Cut Me, Do I Not Bleed Chee-tos?
Me: *ugh.* You are such a music snob.
A: I think you mean "expert."
*******
I put a video of Bird in my sidebar. Two and a half is the best age ever. She's like a little foreign game show host, so excited and innocently trying to learn this language. You joking me around!
The in-laws were in town over the weekend. My pantry now closely resembles aisle 4 at Kroger, with every conceivable packaged, cheese-flavored, artificially colored dry snack shoved into six square inches of counter space. I must publicly pat myself on the back for harvesting all of the cold canned diet cokes from the fridge and putting them back in their cardboard case to send back to Indiana when the in-laws departed this morning, saving me the temptation to drink one with every meal until they're gone and feel like over-caffeinated, chemical shit for a solid week. Yay, me!
Bird invited the grandparents to the library's kick-ass puppet theater, giving A. and I a chance to poke around the CDs and fiction for 45 childless minutes. (currently reading this). We went out to eat at a new neighborhood restaurant, A. and his dad played golf, I made a fabulous vegetable strata for breakfast and made everyone eat lentils for dinner Friday night, and everyone was happy to be in each other's company for a few days regardless of our limited space.
I even got to get away for a few hours late Saturday night to play Spinner with three of my favorite wine-soaked, trash-talkin' ladies. They play for blood. And chocolate.
All in all, a good weekend, even if there was some stirring-up of religious compost Sunday morning that released some stinky emotional gas. I'll be private about the details but I will say that I am so very proud of my husband for the choices he's made, the respect he's shown me when it comes to my own beliefs, the compromises he's made for our family and his willingness to defend those decisions, and the commitment he's made to finding what's right for our little group of three, regardless of what the Pope or any other interested party thinks about it. A, you are a helluva guy.
We had a delightful Sunday dinner tonight with the regular cast of characters, I ate pie AND brownies, I snuggled a smooshy baby, and Bird dropped her dress-up shoe in the toilet without escalating to crisis. Sweet progress.
I also got a job offer late Friday afternoon, the details of which I plan to negotiate but am 99% certain I will take. It's a job -- get this-- writing. And it's full time, which changes some things but not others, and which weighs on my mama-heart and at the same time really doesn't, and all kinds of other complicated, layered chatter. Which I may post here sometime. The bottom line is that it's more money, more stability and nobody dies (at least not as a routine part of the job-- a welcome change), and, um, I have a ten-year-old degree in creative writing degree sitting around somewhere that I've been itching to dust off. So there you have it. Thanks for your good thoughts, I got the slob. And now I must find a way to gracefully extract myself from a four-seat nonprofit staff that is already one man down and struggling. *gulp*
A: I think you mean "expert."
*******
I put a video of Bird in my sidebar. Two and a half is the best age ever. She's like a little foreign game show host, so excited and innocently trying to learn this language. You joking me around!
The in-laws were in town over the weekend. My pantry now closely resembles aisle 4 at Kroger, with every conceivable packaged, cheese-flavored, artificially colored dry snack shoved into six square inches of counter space. I must publicly pat myself on the back for harvesting all of the cold canned diet cokes from the fridge and putting them back in their cardboard case to send back to Indiana when the in-laws departed this morning, saving me the temptation to drink one with every meal until they're gone and feel like over-caffeinated, chemical shit for a solid week. Yay, me!
Bird invited the grandparents to the library's kick-ass puppet theater, giving A. and I a chance to poke around the CDs and fiction for 45 childless minutes. (currently reading this). We went out to eat at a new neighborhood restaurant, A. and his dad played golf, I made a fabulous vegetable strata for breakfast and made everyone eat lentils for dinner Friday night, and everyone was happy to be in each other's company for a few days regardless of our limited space.
I even got to get away for a few hours late Saturday night to play Spinner with three of my favorite wine-soaked, trash-talkin' ladies. They play for blood. And chocolate.
All in all, a good weekend, even if there was some stirring-up of religious compost Sunday morning that released some stinky emotional gas. I'll be private about the details but I will say that I am so very proud of my husband for the choices he's made, the respect he's shown me when it comes to my own beliefs, the compromises he's made for our family and his willingness to defend those decisions, and the commitment he's made to finding what's right for our little group of three, regardless of what the Pope or any other interested party thinks about it. A, you are a helluva guy.
We had a delightful Sunday dinner tonight with the regular cast of characters, I ate pie AND brownies, I snuggled a smooshy baby, and Bird dropped her dress-up shoe in the toilet without escalating to crisis. Sweet progress.
I also got a job offer late Friday afternoon, the details of which I plan to negotiate but am 99% certain I will take. It's a job -- get this-- writing. And it's full time, which changes some things but not others, and which weighs on my mama-heart and at the same time really doesn't, and all kinds of other complicated, layered chatter. Which I may post here sometime. The bottom line is that it's more money, more stability and nobody dies (at least not as a routine part of the job-- a welcome change), and, um, I have a ten-year-old degree in creative writing degree sitting around somewhere that I've been itching to dust off. So there you have it. Thanks for your good thoughts, I got the slob. And now I must find a way to gracefully extract myself from a four-seat nonprofit staff that is already one man down and struggling. *gulp*
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